


the fourth part of the night

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: mcsmooch, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-27
Updated: 2009-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-04 00:01:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sfarne insist on the traditional reunion ritual—the full quarantine with its long, accompanying vigil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the fourth part of the night

**Author's Note:**

> For Cate, who wanted a reunion.

The Sfarne insist on the traditional reunion ritual—the full quarantine with its long, accompanying vigil. Six days, fifteen hours, nine minutes and an indeterminate number of seconds; Rodney doggedly remains in the town square for all of it, flanked by a grim-faced Ronon and a weary Teyla. It's not that the Sfarne are unkind; they bring food and water and offer the protection of their roofs for the duration of their wait. Rodney takes the bowls of hot stew they offer, the steaming mugs of stout tea, but shakes his head _no_ at each suggestion that he might want to rest; Teyla is tactful, thanking the Sfarne for their offer but saying that her team prefers to remain here and wait.

Rodney's not gone crazy, isn't wilfully eschewing feather beds and hot water in favour of Ronon's dubious tent construction and the by now frankly offensive odour of his own socks. But he knows that for six days, fifteen hours, nine minutes and an eternity of seconds, John is a couple of hundred yards and a solid wall of metal and marble away from them, from him. No matter that Rodney knows it's for a good reason, no matter that he's hacked the Ancient facility's database and knows the Sfarne's hesitation is drawn from solid Ancient practice, from horrified folk memory of what happens to people stupid enough to have, like John, ignored all the warning signs and leapt where he should have looked: that John being in a decontamination unit for six days is better than him suffering a painful death from radiation sickness, Rodney still finds that he can't sleep for the thoughts of John being immured and dying slowly.

_Should sleep some_, Ronon tells him softly on the evening of the third day, and if Rodney is maybe more offensive than he should be in his response because he _would if he could_, he's grateful for how Ronon shrugs and says _okay_ and doesn't push; is grateful for the warm, callused hand that Teyla places on his wrist, finds solace in the touch she places just over the point where his pulse is hammering.

The fifteenth hour of the sixth day is the worst. Intellectually, Rodney knows that John is most likely fine, that he's facing this with the same nonchalance with which he greets everything and that he's spent the week lounging about in the Ancient equivalent of a hammock, singing tuneless Johnny Cash songs to himself and working on the insouciance of his slouch—but the problem is that intellectually, Rodney _also_ knows the mathematical chances of millennia-old equipment malfunctioning, of there being a crack in the core's casing that could leak lethal radiation into John's supposed refuge, of sheer dumb luck. He knows that it's been six days and sixteen hours since he heard the sound of John's voice, since he heard him yell _get the fuck out of here, Rodney, go!_ in a voice hoarse and cracking with strain.

The fifteenth hour is the worst because Rodney's getting closer to finding out _yes_ or _no_—and there's probably a paper to be gleaned from this, Schroedinger's goddamned lieutenant colonel—and the gathering of the Sfarne clergy at the complex's entrance makes his hands tremble.

_All will be well, Rodney_, Teyla tells him, and she puts a hand at the small of his back, pushing him forward so that Rodney leads the three of them over to stand in front of the entranceway. They must make a strange sight next to the clerics in their blue and red finery; Rodney's uncomfortably aware of the stubble on his cheeks and the torn and bloodied knees of his BDUs.

_I, uh_, he starts to say to Ronon but then somewhere a timer reaches zero and the door slides open and Rodney can't quite remember how to speak. Inside the building, it's dim and dark and Rodney has to squint, shading his eyes against the Sfarnan noonday sun—for a moment, he can't make out anything, but then something moves, black against the shadows, and when that something resolves into _John_, familiar and dear and limping, Rodney's breath hiccups in his throat and if it weren't for how Ronon and Teyla were flanking him, he doesn't know if he'd be able to stay standing.

_I, uh_, he says again while the clergy go through their own little ritual, the studied movements that will allow them to welcome John back into their town once more. One of them stands on tip-toe to pour a small vial of oil over John's head; another burns incense that smells a little like the sage Jeannie is so fond of; a third dips his thumb into a pot of honey and smears it on John's lips. All the time, John stares at Rodney and Rodney stares at John and Rodney thinks he's rarely known what it's felt like to wait for so long for something so wanted.

With the ritual finished, the Sfarne smile and bow their thanks and congratulations. They bustle off into the building to begin its purification, Teyla and Ronon discreetly fade into the background, and John and Rodney are still standing there staring at one another for a long moment. John's jaw is stubbled and his clothes are stained with dirt and dust; he's got oil in his hair and honey on his lips and his eyes are ringed with dark circles and Rodney is so glad to see him.

Rodney thinks he moves first, or maybe it's John, but the shock of body embracing body is mutual: chest against chest, belly against belly, thighs bracing against thighs, and Rodney wraps his arms around John, trying and failing not to cling to him. He mumbles something against John's neck, something he can't quite translate into English because it means _missed you_ and _jackass_ and _god, John_ and _do you know how long six days, fifteen hours, nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds are?_, and it's all jumbled up in Rodney's head just as thoroughly as John's got things all jumbled up in his heart.

_Hey_, John says, _hey_, and he smoothes a hand over Rodney's ruffled hair until it's resting on the nape of Rodney's neck. The familiar fondness of that gesture is enough to make Rodney lift his head and kiss him: long and lush and slow, curving his body into John's, scraping his teeth along John's lower lip, reminding himself of what it's like to feel John's mouth against his, to feel the inaudible, pleasurable sound of John's chest rumbling with happiness against Rodney's own.

_You, sir, are a jackass_, Rodney says when he pulls away, eyes closed and forehead resting against John.

_Missed you too, McKay_, John answers, and god, Rodney's missed this—the slow inhalation of one another's air; the feeling of having a solid place to stand.


End file.
